


To the Soldier, the Civilian, the Martyr, the Victim

by sky_reid



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Dragons, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Magic, Mild Gore, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_reid/pseuds/sky_reid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've always told her that dragons are monsters, that all they can do is destroy. But now she thinks they may be wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Soldier, the Civilian, the Martyr, the Victim

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello there. Never posted original work before, so kinda nervous. Wanted to point out that while no archive warnings strictly apply, you should check additional tags for things that might make you cringe. No, seriously. Violence, gore and dub-con. Just in case you can't be bothered to scroll up.
> 
> Now, while all the truly important info about the world and the setting _is_ in the story, it's just tidbits of info all over the thing, so it might be confusing. If you prefer knowing the setting before jumping into something, [by all means check out this story as posted on LJ](http://tink-sky-reid.livejournal.com/3685.html), specifically the part that says _description of the world_.
> 
> Title from _This is War_ , by 30 Seconds to Mars.

 

_To the Soldier, the Civilian, the Martyr, the Victim_

 

For as long as she can remember, everyone has always told her that dragons are monsters, that they have no emotions, no intelligence, just basic instinct and brute strength. She's always been taught that dragons are evil, that they need to be killed, that Slayers do the most noble of all jobs. She's never questioned that. It's always been just another fact of life, like the sky being blue or flowers blooming in spring.

 

She lifts the hand holding the large egg and smashes it against the stone wall.

 

*

 

There's a loud thud from one of the lower levels of the cave as she lifts the last egg from the nest and gets ready to throw it. She rolls her eyes, half-wishing somebody else was there with them because nobody ever trusts _her_ that Ranek is too clumsy for stealthy missions. She throws the egg she's holding over the ledge and waits for the satisfying cracking sound before she shifts her hold on the staff and looks down after the egg.

 

“All right down there, Ranek?” she yells, a teasing tone to her voice. She takes the loud, cranky grumble as an affirmative answer.

 

“Found another nest here,” Ranek yells and that wipes the smirk off her face. There's not _supposed_ to be another nest here, they'd already cleared this cave a few cycles ago, this is supposed to be just a simple clean up operation.

 

“You sure it's new?” she asks, leaning over the rocky edge; Ranek's torch is throwing unsteady light from a tunnel not far under hers.

 

“Yeah, the eggs are still warm.”

 

“Well, shit,” she breathes quietly to herself, because this is not what she expected at all. In all her eleven years as a Slayer, it's never happened that she stumbled upon a cave which is still in use with only her partner to help her. Not a very skilled partner at that, if the sounds coming from down below are anything to go by.

 

She quickly goes over her options – there are no other Slayer pairs nearby, this cave is too far north for any of the army settlements to be within reach and she knows for certain they are the only ones who were sent here; the two of them alone cannot fight off an adult dragon which can't be far, because if there's one thing that dragons do these days, it's protecting their young. The best thing they can do is run, run the hell away from there before the dragon returns, so she opens her mouth to say as much, but then there's an unfamiliar sound from somewhere to her right that promptly shuts her up. She scans the cave, lifting her staff and sending out tendrils of light purple luminescence through the shadows; one of them quivers in the air and curls in on itself before it's broken through by a cloud of fire and she _feels_ the heat on her skin. She pulls her magic back inside and runs into the cave tunnel she come from, followed by the loud roaring and that sense of scorching heat still on her skin.

 

*

 

Ranek bumps into her at the intersection they previously parted at, nearly knocking her against the wall in his hurry. “Come on, come on, let's go,” he's mumbling as he yanks her forward by her elbow. She drops her staff at the sudden and unexpected movement and has to stop to pick it up, Ranek's rambled nonsense filling her ears all the while. For all that Ranek _is_ , he's hardly a coward and this sudden onset of panic confuses her to no end.

 

“ _What_ is wrong with you?” she asks, irritated, as she checks the staff for any damage (there is none, thank gods) and dusts off her clothing. There's a tear in the leather snugly hugging her thighs and she curses at the feel of it under her fingers – she rather likes this ensemble.

 

“What's wrong with _me_? There's a father-dragon at our heels and we just killed his babies, and you want to know what's wrong with me?”

 

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, Ranek, this is what we're trained to do.” Wait, trained. Yes, this is what Ranek is trained to do, to follow orders no matter what, to follow orders from their elders, to do as he's told... It dawns on her what's the only thing that could possibly have Ranek in this shock-panicked state just as she feels another hot burst of fire engulf her. Damn the light she forgot to take back in. “Tell me all the eggs are gone,” she hisses at Ranek through another heat wave that has sweat breaking out on her skin. If she didn't know better, she'd think the dragon was torturing her on purpose.

 

“Uh, well,” Ranek stutters out and so help her, she could slap him for being so slow. But then her skin is on fire again and all she can do is groan, half in frustration and half in pain, as she turns the corner to the tunnel Ranek came out from, inwardly cursing him to high heavens.

 

*

 

There are two eggs in the nest at the end of the tunnel and she easily smashes them with the bottom of her staff, not wanting to waste time on picking them up and throwing them against the walls. She cringes at the disgusting feeling of thick, sticky blood on her staff which glows a sickly green for a second before the crystal in it goes back to its regular dark-bobbies purple.

 

The growl that follows is much too close for comfort and sure enough, when she looks up, there's a large wine red head in front of her, two shining yellow eyes staring at her. If she stretched her hand, she could easily touch the sharp-looking scales of the dragon's nose and she scrambles backwards in an attempt to get away, but trips on the remnants of the nest. She barely manages to keep standing, her free hand flying out to steady her against the wall.

 

“Come on, Nymria, we need to go!” Ranek yells from somewhere behind her, but she can't move. She stares at the dragon, close to her, so close that it could easily roast her for dinner if it wanted, but it's just hovering there instead. She's never been in such proximity to an adult dragon before, having always been the range support in battles, so now, for the first time, she sees bright spots of orange in the large yellow eyes steadily trained on her. She has a spot of brighter blue in her midnight-sky eyes, in the lower part of her left iris. It somehow feels strange to see this creature have something so... normal, something she can say she shares.

 

The dragon keeps staring at her, at her feet more precisely, and she finds herself following his stare, looking down. The broken eggs (seven that she can count, along with the ones she's just taken care of) are lying there, shells and miniature bones and random blood vessels and slime covering the floor. She looks away from the disgusting mess and focuses on the dragon again, its nostrils flaring, eyes widening, shining. She expects the burn of fire enveloping her, but it never comes; it's just light smoke that leaves the dragon's mouth, obscuring its eyes. There's something in the slanted black cat-eye pupils, the shine around the lower eyelids, the way the scales above the dragon's eyes fall lower on its face, there's something she almost recognizes. Almost, because dragons don't feel, they don't think, they kill; they attack populated areas and burn down houses and fields of villagers who have nothing else, and this is a play of light, this is her confusion, this is _not_ an expression, and it's not rage, and it's not sadness.

 

*

 

The loud crashing sound is oddly disturbing. When she picked up her staff, (realizing, upon Ranek's hissed warning, that she'd been rooted to the spot for far too long) and sent the furious burst of magic into one of the dragon's eyes, she thought she'd feel elated at the screeching sound that came from the animal. But all she felt was anger – over Ranek's clumsy and accidental disobedience, over her inability to keep him under control, over the fact that she stood there, like hypnotyzed, staring into the eyes of the dragon, wondering if it really was as heartbroken as it looked (as if a dragon _could_ be heartbroken). So when Ranek sent one of his arrows flying, she boosted it with far more power than necessary, anticipating the deafening thud of the dragon's large body hitting the ground to be the best sound she'd ever heard.

 

But it's not. Whatever it is that she saw staring into those eyes, whatever it was that had her mesmerized by them, it hasn't disappeared with the dragon's life. If anything, she is even less in touch with the real world now.

 

Ranek's sharp intake of breath makes her whirl around; her foot crunches on the eggshells and bones on the ground and the sounds make her twitch. It sounds so much like human bones being broken, reminds her of the way her mother cried out in pain when that Soldier twisted her arm too far all those years ago.

 

“We shouldn't have done that,” Ranek says, even though his eyes are glimmering with excitement and his lips are curled in a proud sneer. “Our orders were to destroy the eggs, not kill the dragon.”

 

“Well, if you'd actually broken all the eggs, maybe we wouldn't have had to kill it,” she shoots back, still unreasonably mad at the clenching in her chest that should not be there.

 

“Whatever,” Ranek replies, turning around. “One less dragon to worry about. I doubt anyone's gonna think any less of us,” he throws over his shoulder. “Or miss it,” he adds with a snort.

 

At least that's something she can agree with. There will be no one to miss the large golden eyes with their orange freckles, not with the thin bones still crunching like autumn leaves under her boots.

 

*

 

“Do you ever wonder about what we do?” she asks, staring absently at the fire. The fact that she can't see Ranek through it helps her determination.

 

“What do you mean?” comes Ranek's rough voice over the arrhythmical crackling. She refrains from correcting his grammar – it hardly seems like an appropriate timing.

 

“Killing dragons. Does it ever occur to you, I don't know... not to do it?”

 

“Why would it?” he replies readily and she feels like the conversation is pointless, because she knows what he'll say – he'll tell her everything any other person would. “We're Slayers. Can't get much better than that, sweetheart.”

 

She cringes at the nickname and pulls her covers up to her chin. Yes, Slayers and their noble cause of ridding the world of evil. She's always believed in it, always been encouraged to strive for it, from the moment she realized she had magic. She doesn't really understand what the problem seems to be with that goal right now, but for some reason, the oddly hurt-looking yellow eyes won't leave her in peace.

 

“You know, for all that everyone thinks highly of you,” Ranek interrupts her thoughts, “you're not a very good Slayer.”

 

“Excuse me?” she spits, anger flaring at even the notion that she's not good at what she does, that she's not good at living her chosen life.

 

“A Slayer who doubts is a bad Slayer,” Ranek says easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is, to him, because Soldiers are _bred_ like this, to obey, to believe, to serve, without question and doubt. Sometimes she thinks life would be so much easier if she were a Soldier, brought up into the accepted beliefs, never having to wonder or decide. Then again, while she is grateful for the blind loyalty and unquestioned obedience of the Soldiers she shares her days with, they do tend to sound a bit thick sometimes.

 

Then she remembers the zest with which her father told her that if she doesn't become a Slayer, she's nothing but a disappointment and disgrace for the family, recalls the reverence with which her mother always told her the Legend (about the _evil_ dragon who burned down half the kingdom and the _righteous_ King who put a stop to it by creating the Slayers, and the _brave_ men and women who fought against the dragon) and all the adjectives her mother's eyes glinted at sound so out of place, because somehow she feels that there's a part of the story missing – the part where humans (Commoners, Soldiers, Healers, Foresters, it hardly matters) killed the dragon's baby, the part where yellow eyes with orange freckles stared forlornly at broken eggshells. It's funny, she's never heard a story like that, but somehow it fits, completes the puzzle, makes it easier to see clearly.

 

“Please tell me _one_ close encounter with a dragon is not enough to shake you?” Ranek says with an exasperated sigh, like there's something wrong with her _thinking_. Just because Ranek and his Soldier comrades (and her Commoner parents and childhood friends, if she's being completely honest) don't find it fit to turn their brains on once in a while, doesn't mean _she_ should be like that. “I swear, like you've never seen a dragon before,” he snorts.

 

She hasn't. She's seen pictures, beautifully done drawings in textbooks, wonderful tainted glass windows of palaces, stick figures of children in her village. But never a living, breathing dragon, never this close, never this clearly. She doesn't say anything because even Ranek is bound to remember the way strategy works, how magic-users stay behind, help from a distance while the Soldiers fight. The perfect blend of magic and weapons, the only thing that can bring the beasts down.

 

“Right, I forget, you little tricksters are just too _precious_ to waste on real battle.”

 

She can't resist rolling her eyes at his indignation. He's kept it no secret from her, or anyone else who's ever been paired up with him, that he thinks magic is no more than pretty lights and long words and scary-looking staffs. At first she thought he was jealous that his sister was born with magic and he wasn't, but then she learned that he has the emotional development of a three-day-old raccoon and dropped the pretence of being nice and trying to understand. His refusal to grasp that magic is a physical part of her, that she _feels_ it, feels what she does with it, feels what's done _to_ it, that it takes a lot of concentration and willpower to rule over such strength (the staff is the only way for her to do it now that she's fully developed her skills, but even with it, it's taxing to do more than light up a room) used to irk her, but it's always been a useless emotion, so she grew out of feeling offended. He still prattles on about how the fact that magic-users are _born_ and Soldiers are _made_ doesn't mean that anyone _can_ be a Soldier, that anyone can put in the hard work and effort needed. To a point, she agrees, but then again, Soldiers are replaceable, she's found, they're all alike, but truly good magic-users are rare and losing them is like losing a limb – you never get it back.

 

She turns away from him in a futile attempt to block out everything – the way his words wake up an old frustration in her, the way his attitudes repulse her, the way the colour of fire makes her think of the dragon's eyes, somehow so expressive, despite the fact that she knows, she _knows_ that dragons don't feel, that they're mindless animals, less intelligent than stupid fire-birds even, that they are not meant for things like feelings and thoughts.

 

“They talk, you know,” Ranek says after a while, sounding closer than he was minutes ago and she tenses.

 

“What?”

 

“They talk. I've heard one, last cycle in that mission, she begged us not to kill her baby, told us to take her if we had to, but leave her child. Proper hilarious.” His hand feels cold on her shoulder, his nails like claws digging into the skin. “Wanna fuck?” he asks, no preamble, crude like always. Despicable.

 

“Paws to yourself,” she grits out through her teeth, massaging the place he touched, stupidly thinking it would rid her of the sensation of his skin through the thin fabric of her shirt. He retreats the way he always does (the good little Soldier that he is), giving her an amused sound in response before pulling his blanket around himself and going to sleep.

 

She finds it impossible to sleep with his words ringing out through the trees around them, the dismissive way in which he said that dragons _talk_ , that they _beg_ for their children. The horror of being aware of the possibility that dragons do indeed fight for their families, plan for the future and hope for a chance at surviving crashes over her like a tidal wave. She reaches out for her staff, just to feel its comfortable weight in her palm but finds that it sparks to her touch, refusing her. She curls in on herself, imagining a low rumbling voice saying _Why did you do this?_ the exact same way she felt those eyes accusing her.

 

*

 

Ranek, she decides, is useless. He knows nothing she doesn't, or if her does, he won't share it. So at night, she sneaks out of their camp and searches the woods around them for any Forester settlements. They're not easy to find, she knows, blended in with nature and hidden by magic. It's the magic that gives them away, however. She senses it one night, follows it until she's so deep in the forest, she's not sure she knows how to go back. The trees here are larger, the air feels fresher and the sounds of nocturnal birds fill the night. She can't see anyone, but she's surrounded by people, she has to be; the magic is so strong she can practically taste it.

 

“You're not supposed to be here,” comes a quiet female voice from behind her. She turns around to face the girl – she looks young, calm, long auburn hair falling over her shoulders, a light green dress cascading over her body down to the ground. “Slayers are not welcome in our world,” she says without even a hint of fear, despite the fact that she has nothing on her to protect herself with.

 

Nymria's never understood this policy of the Foresters, the resentment they hold for the Slayers. She's not used to it – wherever she goes, people treat her with respect, reverence even, hold her profession in high regard. As far as she knows, the Foresters are the only race who don't follow this pattern. It's refreshing, if unsettling. “I have questions,” she finally manages, feeling the shift in the woods behind her, hearing the murmur spread – more Foresters, hidden, unseen. She doesn't like it, doesn't like things being hidden from her, the potential for surprise. She grips her staff tighter.

 

“Slayers who seek us out always do,” the girl says, a small, mocking smile spreading over her face. “You'll ask us if we tend to animals; we'll say yes. You'll ask us if we know about them a lot; we'll say yes. You'll ask us if there are intelligent species; we'll say yes.” The girl pauses, looks at Nymria with contempt. Nymria takes a step back. “You'll ask us if dragons are one of them.”

 

“You'll say yes?” Nymria guesses.

 

“You wouldn't be here if you didn't already know the answer to that.”

 

*

 

When she comes back to their camp (Ranek is still asleep and the fire has burned out), she still doesn't know what to think. Intelligent doesn't mean good, she knows that. But it does mean consciousness, awareness, thoughts and feelings. It means different personalities, it means attachment to family and life. It means that dragons are much more like her than she originally thought.

 

Then again, she can't trust just one bit of information from one Forester, she can't make that more important and true than everything everyone has always told her. But it's not just one Forester, is it? It's all of them. And she's clearly not the first Slayer to speak to them. This doesn't really comfort her – she's heard of Slayers who break the Oath, they're disgraced and ridiculed, and that's only if they manage to run away before they're killed. That's not what she wants for herself.

 

She wraps herself in her blanket and closes her eyes, trying to fall asleep. The problem is, she keeps thinking about all those other Slayers who spoke to the Foresters, wondering if they stayed awake like this. They must have. How did they know who to trust? How did they decide if the dragons should be eradicated? How did they go back to their regular lives, how did they take the next mission and carry on like they still knew nothing?

 

The last thought to cross her mind before she falls asleep is – _they didn't_.

 

*

 

The court is the same as it was the last time she was there, cold stone walls and displays of wealth everywhere. The King sits on his throne and speaks to the gathering of Slayers. Nymria knows them all, has worked with most of them. She used to think they were some of the best people she'd ever met, that they were the smartest and bravest of all. Now she has to push away the thoughts of their ignorance.

 

“The dragons are gathering in the North,” the King says, his voice echoing in the large room. “They seem to be organizing for an attack. We must stop them.”

 

Nymria tries not to think how organizing requires planning and communication, while secretly hoping at least one other person in the room will understand that _animals_ don't get organized, _humans_ do. Nobody reacts.

 

*

 

As much as she hates spending all her time only with Ranek, she hates travelling in a group even more. _Somebody_ is always up and about, even at night, and there's very little privacy. Sometimes, she finds the camp too loud to hear her own thoughts. It's annoying, but right now she's grateful for it, because it distracts her from imagining, _fantasizing_ about getting out of her tent and running away. She's not sure when it first occurred to her, but the more time passes, the more the idea grows from a random scary thought to an exciting plan. She thinks that it may have something to do with the fact that every time she hears another Slayer talk about the thrill of the kill, about the exhilaration of doing something so _right_ , she remembers Ranek telling her about the mother-dragon who begged, she thinks of the large yellow eyes looking at broken eggs, crestfallen.

 

Oddly enough, what tips her over has nothing to do with dragons. One night, Ranek comes from the training late, covered in sweat and dirt, a cut on his cheek oozing thick red blood. He takes off his armour and puts on a shirt, wipes his face on a rag before turning to her.

 

“You're not very enthusiastic about training,” he accuses, making no effort to hide his distaste.

 

“Well, you know us magic-users, we can hardly be bothered to lift a finger,” she replies bitterly.

 

“Damn true,” he snorts, coming closer. “But you know what I think?”

 

“You think? That's new,” she says, refusing to back away. The tent is small and there's barely enough space for their sleeping bags and a small folding table; it's not the first time she's felt his damp breath on her face or been able to count the hairs in his beard.

 

“I think you're still hung up on killing that dragon,” he hisses at her, eyes flashing in anger. She's not sure what he has to be angry about, it's not like that's his problem. “I think you're getting weak, I think you're about to break,” he continues, voice going quieter, his words sounding like a warning. “I think you're about to turn on us.”

 

He's right of course, but she's not about to tell him as much. For all that everyone insists the races are equal, magic-users are trusted more, so as long as she's not obvious, he has nothing on her. She juts her chin out defensively and narrows her eyes; Ranek steps closer to her, brackets her in with his arms on the table behind her.

 

“You'd better leave before the battle. Or do you _want_ us all to die?” he says in a low, disgusted tone and really, she doesn't think he has the right to treat her like this, but fuck if she doesn't think she deserves it. Granted, he thinks she deserves it because of her recent decisions, and she thinks she deserves it for everything prior to that, but at least this is something they're on the same page about. She very carefully doesn't point out that she doesn't much care what happens to the rest of the Slayers – they're just like her anyway, killers and torturers, ignorant, stupid idiots, and most of the time crude and disgusting as fuck (and Ranek seems to just _live_ to prove it). She still doesn't understand how she managed to live for this long with them, how she managed to _be_ them. Now that she can see so clearly everything that is wrong, it seems as if things she thought of as normal are jumping at her with how illogical they are. Ranek holds her wrists and spins her around, bends her over the table and presses his body against hers.

 

“I could make you leave me alone,” she hisses over her shoulder, because she knows that he will obey an order; one word and she could have him out the door and not coming back for the night.

 

“Oh, but you won't,” Ranek laughs, “I've had a partner who left before. You're just too soaked up in your own self-loathing to stop me.”

 

Ranek just might be smarter than she's given him credit for, she decides, as he pushes her belt down to her thighs and holds her hips in place. It's easy to tune out, to even revel in the feeling of her back being forced down, of strong hands gripping her sides hard enough to bruise, steadying her, when all that she can think is how this is just another proof of what the Slayers truly are, another side of them that nobody gets to see, an aspect of who _she_ 's been all these years.

 

So when he pushes into her roughly, with too much force, she pushes back. It's revolting and foul and makes her mouth taste sour; it's almost enough to make her forget that she's done worse.

 

*

 

It's surprisingly easy to leave the camp. Either nobody notices her, or they don't want to notice her. Either way, when she sneaks out, leather bag in one hand and the staff in the other, nobody stops her. She doesn't wait long before burying the staff in the ground and leaving it behind – she's loathe to part with her magic, but she can't afford to be followed through the connection she shares with the other magic-using Slayers. She expects it to leave her feeling helpless, to be like a void in her, but it's not. In fact, she's never felt more free.

 

She knows the forest the way she knows her own home, she's spent too much time on different quests not to know it, so it doesn't take her long to find a lone unicorn and catch it (all the while thanking the gods that she grew up on a farm where she had to learn how to herd horses). As she spurs it forward faster, she ponders the idea of unicorns feeling. She feels stupid as she whispers encouragement into the twitching white ears of the animal, but she figures it can't hurt.

 

*

 

Riding up ahead of Slayers is a monumentally stupid idea, she belatedly realizes. While they won't catch up with her any time soon (unicorns are far faster than a convoy of humans on foot, after all), she is still in their way and she knows best that they won't hesitate to kill her if need be to get to their goal. She rides north nonetheless, because it's the only place she's certain she'll find dragons (say what you will of the Slayers, but they do their job well), and actually contacting a dragon is the only way she can think of that will give her the final peace of mind that she's made the right choice.

 

There's another reason why deciding to ride north is not her brightest moment – in her hurry to leave, she only packed the essentials, which did not include winter clothes. She regrets this now as she pulls her thin cloak tighter around her to try to keep out the biting chill.

 

*

 

There are warm hands on her calves. That's about as far as her thoughts manage to go before she takes out the dagger she always carries with her and points it blindly at whoever it is that's touching her. She must have fallen asleep somewhere along the way, because her brain feels too big for her head right now and her thoughts are as thick as stew, fuzzy and slow from remnants of dreams.

 

“Easy now,” somebody whispers calmly. She opens her eyes (and really, it must have been one heck of a rest if she's _this_ slow to act after it) and sees a young woman standing in front of her, arms raised in a placating gesture. “Just wanted to help.”

 

“I don't need help,” Nymria answers, her voice still thick with sleep, thoughts too sluggish to think of a better response.

 

“You could do with some warm clothing,” the woman says, casually shrugging a shoulder. She's wearing a regular peasant dress and a thick wool cloak that Nymria would kill for just about now, and she doesn't look scared at all, even as the dagger is pointed right at her throat (Nymria takes a moment to pat herself on the back – asleep and with slow reflexes, and she _still_ manages to get the attack right).

 

“What's it to you?” Nymria replies dissmissively, putting the dagger back. She doesn't have time for this, and to be honest, is probably much too proud to accept help anyway. The woman doesn't take the hint to leave.

 

“A job,” the other woman tells her in a tone which implies that Nymria is missing something obvious. And yeah, she is, because her eyes land on the woven bag under the woman's arm a few seconds later; the rune for _help_ is embroidered into it – a Healer then. “You can rest in my house and take some clothes when you leave. I have a mare in the stables, but I'm sure there'll be enough space for your...” She pauses, gestures at the unicorn under Nymria and rolls her eyes. “A unicorn, really? Do you always show off like that?”

 

Nymria snorts a short laugh because, yeah, she can see how it looks like showing off. “Didn't have much choice,” she replies, amused at the utter lack of fear or at least awkwardness the woman is showing, considering she's come face to face with a very cranky, very armed, and still very obviously wearing a Slayers' uniform person.

 

The woman smirks back at her as she shows her down what seems to be the main street of the town. “Sure, honey,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “The name's Iona, by the way,” she adds, taking a turn at the next corner.

 

“Iona,” Nymria repeats. It feels nice, how her lips shape the name. “I'm Nymria. Nice to meet you.”

 

*

 

Nymria doesn't plan to stay any longer than necessary, intends to just have a couple of hours' rest and pick up some clothes and leave, because while she has full nine days of riding on the Slayer convoy she left, she's not willing to risk her advantage. But somehow, she finds herself staying the night. It may be the fact that the bed is damn comfortable and the food from the kitchen smells delicious, but it may just as well be the way Iona huffs in frustration when one of her potions doesn't quite work out (explodes over the fire would be a better explanation, but Nymria doesn't think Iona would appreciate it) and the way she smiles triumphantly when she finally gets it right.

 

“So, any recent wounds you need tending to?” Iona asks as she cleans the dishes after dinner.

 

Nymria's mind automatically goes to the nearly invisible hand-shaped bruises on her hips and inner thighs. “No, afraid not,” she says, satisfied with how quickly she manages to get away from that train of thought.

 

Iona looks at her, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

 

“What are you, reading my mind?” Nymria asks, not quite managing to keep the defensiveness out of her voice.

 

“Or maybe I'm just damn good at knowing people,” Iona replies flatly. Really, the woman can't be moved. But Nymria is at least having fun trying.

 

*

 

She ends up staying another day. Helping Iona pick up the herbs from her garden and listening to her animatedly chattering about the satisfaction of medical and healing practices proves to be more fun that pretty much anything Nymria remembers happening in the last _decade_. That should really tell her something about her chosen path in life.

 

*

 

“So, you still haven't told me what a Slayer is doing in these lands,” Iona says over dinner, her voice changing tone as she enunciates _Slayer;_  the disapproval is obvious and Nymria gets angry purely out of habit before she remembers that she probably sounds like that now as well.

 

“Wouldn't know,” she replies as conversationally as she can, “not a Slayer anymore.”

 

“Didn't realize that was a job one could leave,” Iona counters, a hint of distrust in her voice.

 

“Not with their reputation _and_ life,” Nymria says tartly, getting up to clear the table before Iona can see the resentment in her eyes.

 

“So what are _you_ doing here?”

 

“The same thing the Slayers will be in a few days, ironically.” Nymria laughs, but with little humour behind it. It seems her life hasn't really changed as much as she would like to believe. “Looking for dragons.”

 

“And why is that?” Iona manages to sound mostly curious, but there's a wary undercurrent to the words, like she expects Nymria to have some destructive plans of taking down a whole counsel of dragons on her own and taking the credit for it. The funny thing is, not so long ago, this would seem like a great plan; now it just makes her recoil from the idea.

 

“Because I...” Want to talk to them? Want to see if they really are as evolved as us? Am apparently either really stupid or still an overly sheltered child? She settles for, “I want to learn.”

 

“Learn?” Iona echoes, disbelief evident in her tone. “What took you so long?”

 

It never fails to surprise Nymria how entirely unconcerned Iona is about the fact that she's talking to a trained assassin, how it never stops her from saying these things. It's refreshing, if a little unnerving. But Nymria doesn't feel like sharing her recent catharsis quite so easily, so instead she shuts Iona up by kissing her. Iona doesn't seem to be bothered by this as she kisses back.

 

*

 

“I never knew that dragons could... talk,” Nymria whispers to the room at large. It's easier now that she's flat on her back in Iona's bed, wrapped only in Iona's equally naked form and the darkness of the night.

 

Iona's fingers on her side are warm and gentle, but her voice is not. “Ever bothered to find out?”

 

“I just... Everyone always told me that dragons are supposed to be killed,” Nymria replies, but the defense is feeble at best and she doesn't need Iona's snort to know that it's really no excuse at all.

 

“Well, at least you did figure it out,” Iona tells her after a while with a strange wistfulness to her tone that makes Nymria think that maybe there's somebody in particular Iona wishes would finally see the truth. But she doesn't ask, because while Iona's warm body is a welcome weight on top her, and Iona's lips are soft and gentle on her stomach, and Iona's hair tickles her shoulders pleasantly, she has to leave. She tells herself that it's because she's losing her advantage over the Slayers, but deep down she feels that this is just _too_ good and that it's wrong for _her_ to take it. If Iona notices her unease, she doesn't mention it.

 

*

 

When she disentangles herself from Iona's long limbs, Iona's either asleep or pretends to be. Either way, Nymria is glad for not having to explain herself. She packs her stuff and some extra clothing from Iona's room and leaves. She briefly considers leaving a note, apologizing somehow, but then she thinks of Iona's quick wit and sharp tongue and decides that a note would not be appreciated.

 

*

 

Considering how large dragons are, and the fact that they are apparently gathering somewhere, it takes Nymria a sinful amount of time to find an occupied cave. She suddenly develops a new admiration for the Slayers' scouts.

 

When she finally finds a cave in the side of the mountain, there's a nest in it with eggs carefully aligned next to each other, but there's no trace of an adult dragon. She carefully climbs into the nest anyway and reaches out for the eggs. The shell is rough and uneven, like dry dirt under her fingers. The eggs are of different pastel colours and Nymria wonders if the shade of the shell has anything to do with the colour of the scales of the future dragon. It's such an inconsequential question compared to everything else she could be thinking ( _do dragons have schools, how do they raise their children, do they have myths and legends, what do they eat, how long do they live_ ), but it really brings home just how little she knows. The worst thing is that these are all thoughts that should have occurred to her sooner, things she should have known before she went and killed dragons like they didn't matter.

 

When she looks up from the eggs, she realizes there's a large, dark purple dragon in front of her. The first thing that comes to her mind is that her staff was of the same colour and look, the dragon's eyes are not yellow but light blue, that's nice. Then she realizes how this must look, a human in a Slayer's clothes, sitting in a dragon's nest and she abruptly stands up, holding her hands out.

 

“I'm not here to hurt you.”

 

“You couldn't if you tried,” the dragon replies in a deep and rasping but distinctly female voice that sounds equal parts bemused and dangerous. “Lose a partner somewhere along the way?”

 

“Actually, my partner lost me,” Nymria says with an oddly satisfied ring to it. “I left. I couldn't— I didn't know—“ And then she remembers how little her excuses meant to Iona, and how absolutely meaningless they must be for a dragon. “I'm Nymria. I used be a Slayer. But I'm not anymore,” she ends up saying, wondering if the dragon will even believe her, and what it will— what _she_ will do otherwise. Between the sharp claws, the large teeth and the fire breath, Nymria can think of a wide variety of unpleasant ways to die.

 

“And you think this is some sort of an admirable and noble act, leaving a pack of wild, blood-thirsty killers?” the dragon asks with something that sounds suspiciously like a condescending chuckle. She enters the cave, gracefully folding her wings and breathes a puff of hot air over the eggs; she looks at Nymria again and cocks her head. “Why are you here? And don't tell me you wanted to make sure that yes, we are actually familiar with the concept of thinking and even speaking, as you can see for yourself.”

 

Nymria suddenly feels unreasonably embarrassed. She wonders how many others before her sought out dragons with those same excuses, imagines somebody killing _her_ family and apologizing that they _didn't know better;_  she doesn't think she'd be inclined to forgive. She knows she must look incredibly stupid standing there in her ignorance, but it's too late to turn back now, and while she's already here, she may as well be useful. “The Slayers are on their way here,” she warns.

 

The dragon sits in the corner of the cave. There's an amused spark in her eyes. “Are they? Good, we've been expecting them.”

 

And Nymria did kind of expect that because if the dragons are as intelligent as she now suspects (and they seem to be), then they know the Slayers are following their every move. She wonders for how long this has been in the making.

 

“So, now what?” she asks some time later, when her legs are starting to hurt from not moving and the dragon is acting like she's not even there.

 

“Well, you come in peace, I have no reason to kill you, if that's what you mean,” the dragon tells her, still sounding a little patronizing. Nymria figures she deserves that because despite recent discoveries, being killed is exactly what she expected (she adamantly refuses to acknowledge the thought that the potential of being killed may have been the very reason she came here). She has to remind herself that her previous conceptions of dragons are clearly wrong. “You can leave any time you want,” the dragon adds, settling more comfortably and pulling the nest with eggs a little closer to her with one long front leg.

 

But the thing is, Nymria has nowhere to go. All her life, she's been what others expected her to be, followed their rules and believed their stories; now that she knows her whole life was based on lies, misinformation and ignorance, she doesn't have a very strong wish to go back to it. “I'd rather stay,” she says.

 

“Oh, a devoted one,” the dragon says. “Well, make yourself comfortable then,” she snorts, puffs of warm air leaving her nostrils and squirming through her teeth. Nymria can't tell if she's amused or still contemptuous, but she sits down by the wall of the cave anyway. “I'm Tanis,” the dragon offers after a while. “And _you_ are unusual.”

 

“So are you,” Nymria dares, because this is not how she imagines dragons to be.

 

“Oh, no, I am quite ordinary. You just don't know many of my kind, I assume.”

 

Nymria has to concede the point.

 

*

 

The dragons turn out to be more accepting than Nymria anticipated. Although it could be just the fact that they are far too preoccupied with war plans to even bother with her. Tanis brings extra catch for dinner (the dragons favour rodents and small forest animals over human flesh, Nymria learns) and even roasts bits of it for Nymria to eat. She tells her about the tactic the dragon counsel is preparing and lets Nymria ask about the dragon culture otherwise. It's educational and enlightening, but humbling in so many ways and Nymria finds that she's never regretted anything quite so much as the time she wasted being a Slayer. Which is quite something to regret, since that is what her whole life has been about from the moment she could understand her father's requests and her mother's hopes and her own stupid wishes that she never properly thought through.

 

Tanis eventually stops being condescending when Nymria tells her about trading magic for freedom. Nymria is not sure why, but she thinks it may have something to do with dragons having to give up flying high and breathing fire near humans in order to just _live;_ it's a sacrifice they can understand.

 

The eggs hatch. The colours of the shells do hold the key to the colours of the baby dragons. Tanis now has three baby girls and two boys (one of the girls is emerald green, and the rest of them are sea blue; Nymria wonders how the colour of scales transfers from parents to children and regrets not becoming a Healer and practicing science instead of weaponry and battles).

 

*

 

The dragons are well-prepared for the battle and the Slayers don't have the element of surprise anymore, but there are things the Slayers are willing to do that the dragons don't expect. Nymria does, though, because she knows the Slayers as well as she knows herself (and really, that's been the problem all along). So when one of the guard dragons informs the rest that he can see the Slayer camp set up not far away and that he predicts an attack next morning, Nymria goes to check out the cave where the dragons are waiting. She's cut off from her kind now, but she can assess the logical place where the Slayers will try to make a secret entrance. It's not difficult to find the most unguarded wall, not when she's been trained to do it for years.

 

She's too late, though. She should have seen it coming, it's the oldest trick in the book – set up camp early so that the enemy thinks you're farther than you are, and she should have seen through it. But she didn't and now there are Soldiers pouring into the cave from an opening that wasn't there yesterday. She shouts for the dragons' attention and takes a second to thank the gods for having had the presence of mind to bring Tanis with her, then another to curse the gods for the same reason because now Tanis is under attack and all that Nymria can see are her baby dragons with their adorable little teeth and claws (and less adorable blood stains on them, but she can see past that now).

 

She's surprised by shots of magic that fill the cave with quivering light, clearly coming directly from staffs and that's new. The magic-users _always_ stayed on the sidelines. With the number of dragons rounded up though, and the ferocious way they're fighting, she can see why the Slayers thought it would be a good idea to get the magic closer, stronger. Right now, Nymria really wishes she hadn't left her staff behind.

 

She hides behind a large rock when a Slayer she has seen before but never worked with sends a piercing bolt of blue light towards her; the magic crashes into the rock, damaging but not destroying it. For a few seconds, all she relies on are sounds and colourful flashes and shadows on the cave walls; it sounds like there are more dragons than the Slayers were expecting and that brings her unexpected elation. She imagines Ranek's face, probably somewhere in the front line (because for all his complaining, he actually enjoys the fight) with wide eyes, his arms flailing in futile attempts at hitting the much-too-fast dragons. Another thing to revel in, she decides.

 

Amidst the chaos, the blue magical bursts never cease coming their way. She peeks out to see the man viciously grinning at her and turns around to see why. There's a group of soldiers at their backs and the only thing stopping them is Tanis' fierce concentration on their utter and bloody destruction. But Tanis can't focus on two things at the same time, not in a fight like this, and it leaves her other side open to attack. As Nymria turns around, the man lifts his staff and his lips move shaping a word she knows is a curse strong enough to kill.

 

*

 

For as long as she can remember, everyone has always told her that dragons are monsters, that they have no emotions, no intelligence, just basic instinct and brute strength. She's always been taught that dragons are evil, that they need to be killed, that Slayers do the most noble of all jobs. There was a time in her life when she could say that she'd never questioned it, accepted it as a fact of life, like the sky being blue or the flowers blooming in spring. But now she knows they're wrong.

 

She steps out of her hiding spot and stands between her friend and the bright blue ray.

**Author's Note:**

> And thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it ^^


End file.
